The Wounds Before the Scars
by Individually Packaged
Summary: On the night of Malik's Tombkeeper Initiation, he meets someone who understands his hatred. Someone who helps him escape from it. Citronshipping Oneshot.


**A/N:** I'd like to dedicate this oneshot to ChaosRocket, who's an awesome friend and amazing beta. She gave me some great ideas to make this story adhere better to canon, so I hope the events seems plausible. :)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!

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The Wounds before the Scars

Malik ran. He ran with wild abandon and caught the cold wind on his face. The sand slipped between his toes—smooth, red sand, tinged with the fading sun's warmth.

It was nearly night. Malik's heart clenched in fear, but nothing compelled him to return. He ached. He hurt so terribly that there was simply no choice—no prospect—of returning.

He stumbled but continued. The fresh events of the night haunted him, pursued him, until he all but dropped in a heap and bled the very rawness of his ordeal over the sand. But he needed to make distance. As much distance as possible before Sister and that bastard could discover that he'd gone, and come looking for him.

He staggered off the sandy path and into the reeds of the river bank. There, the glistening waters of the Nile stared back at him, poised to hear his grievance. He hastened. The blood was, after all, still running down in rivulets, and sickening him with its coppery smell.

He dashed headlong into the river, taking no time to slip off his waistcloth, the only clothing he wore. Immediately, his back seared, broiled with the sting of water in the wounds. Malik bit his lip, keeping from crying out, and stood waist-deep in the river, letting the water run down his carved flesh. Tenderly, he reached back to touch the top of his shoulder, where his skin had been sliced and sculpted to manage the shape of a wing.

_Disgusting_.

The very thought of it consumed him with revulsion. He could hardly move without his flesh breaking open, but he made an effort to clean off the blood. It flowed ceaselessly, and would continue to flow until he bandaged the open gashes. He couldn't return, though. His father's determined, unflinching eyes—his purposeful hands as he slid the knife into Malik's shoulders—were still unwelcome thoughts at the present. Malik trembled with the horrors that had occurred only hours ago, and though he'd known all his life that this day would come, the experience had shocked him, frightened him, and awoke in him an anger that would never be quenched.

He felt fresh blood slip down his back. His jaw clenched, and in that moment of hatred, he vowed to never return to the palace, where the repulsive act had occurred.

The pain had delocalized, had stretched to affect his entire body—his hands shook as he brought the water to his face, his knees trembled as he staggered out of the Nile, and his body would simply no longer hold him up. His movements were clumsy and unsteady from blood loss.

Malik sat on the river bank, wishing he could lie down, but knowing that this simple comfort would be denied to him for some time.

Then, he heard a noise.

A slight rustling of the reeds.

Malik's heart quickened and he strained to hear more. For a moment, he ceased to breathe so the sound wouldn't interfere with his listening.

Again, he heard the sound of reeds being pressed and crushed, as though someone was walking through them.

Malik stood up, so that man or beast, he could see the intruder properly. He strained his eyes, regarding the spot the noise had come from.

And suddenly, someone emerged from the river stalks.

It was a boy, perhaps a few years older than Malik, with wild white hair. He wore only a red waistcloth and several bands of gold about his legs and arms. He hunched slightly, from the weight of a rucksack on his back.

"Who are you?" Malik asked, his eyes wide with surprise. He realized too late that being out of the city at this time of night was probably not a bright idea. But the boy didn't seem dangerous—it appeared that he'd been slinking around in hopes of going unnoticed.

The boy stared at him suspiciously, then his eyes narrowed and darted back and forth, as though to gauge if anyone else was in the vicinity.

Then, realization struck Malik. "You're a thief."

The boy continued to look guarded. "Well-spotted. I hadn't expected anyone to be out in the outskirts of the city this late."

He sized Malik up, as though trying to decide whether Malik's presence posed him any harm. The rucksack on his back clearly indicated that he'd just stolen something, and was trying to make a run for it.

Just as clear was the boy's hesitation to leave, now that Malik knew what he was, and what he'd done. He seemed to fear that Malik might reveal his whereabouts to the palace. The boy dropped the rucksack down into the wet sand, then reached into it, and withdrew a golden trinket.

"I'd appreciate your silence," he said.

Malik's eyes narrowed. "I don't need to be bribed. I have no desire to turn you in, so you can keep your earnings."

"You're not from the palace, then?" the boy asked, confused. Clearly, he expected a member of the palace court to jump at the chance of arresting a criminal.

Malik folded his arms. "I am, but your affairs are no concern of mine. I have my own dilemma to sort out at the moment." He paused, and became more observant. "You should take care of that cut, by the way, it looks quite nasty."

The boy brought his hand to the right side of his face, where a long gash stretched from just under his eye, to the bottom of his cheek. Two other cuts crossed this gash, and had made a bloody mess of his face. The blood had cascaded down his face and dripped onto his chest.

"Yes, I'll see to that," the boy said tartly, wiping off some of the blood and smudging the liquid all over his waistcloth. Then, he smirked, and half-way to himself said, "At least I'd managed to get out of the tomb without the guards landing any other cuts on me."

Malik's eyes widened, and his curiosity got the better of him. "You robbed a tomb?"

The boy's guard lowered and he nodded proudly.

"It was my first time, actually, but I think I did well. A few guards caught me, but I escaped and let them follow me to the east side of the city, then managed to lose them and made my way back to the west side. They probably won't think of searching here for hours."

Malik had to admit he was impressed. He didn't think anyone as young as this boy could rob a tomb, mislead the guards, and still keep the loot. He wondered if letting this budding criminal get away was such a great idea – Sister would be furious if she knew, especially since it was her job to catch criminals with the help of the Millennium Items – but Malik decided that he was in no mood to adhere to palace regulations. Especially not after his own family members had carved his back into symbols he couldn't even read. Especially since he wasn't returning in the first place.

The boy approached the Nile, dipped his hands into the water, and splashed it onto his wounded face. Clearly, he wasn't worried about the guards catching him right then, if he'd driven them to the other side of the city, so he could afford this momentary break to clean his wounds. Then, he seemed to think of Malik's trustworthiness again, and turned to face him.

"Why are you letting me escape? I mean, the palace is currently fixated on capturing criminals, and you look like you're from the inner court. Why the apathy?"

Malik didn't bother asking how the boy could tell he was from the inner court. He seemed like a well-seasoned thief, and probably very observant of details that might identify Malik's rank.

"I would rather have no connection to the palace," Malik said coldly. "Its hypocrisy knows no bounds, and I'm frankly sick of being associated with it. I have no place there."

The boy tilted his head in consideration. "Such strong hatred—from someone so young."

"You would feel the same, if you'd been treated like this," Malik replied.

Then, not knowing what compelled him to do this, he turned so that the boy could face his mutilated back. The boy approached and squinted to make out the bloody symbols that shone in the moonlight.

The moment he saw them clearly, he gasped. "Holy Ra! What's happened to you?"

Malik made to turn, but the boy's hand shot out and gripped his shoulder to still him and examine the wounds more closely.

"They're symbols," he muttered in disbelief, half to himself. "Symbols written into your back as though—as though it were parchment." He gripped Malik's shoulder forcefully, tensing at the very idea of these acts. "It's disgusting. _Filthy_. How could anyone do this to a child?"

"I'm not exactly a child—" Malik protested. The force on his shoulder began to hurt, so he turned and the boy's hand withdrew from his back. "But yes, I think it's a filthy practice too."

He felt weary from blood loss, and sat in the wet sand. The boy was transfixed with the sight of Malik's deep wounds, but finally sat down beside him. Malik glanced over, and noticed that something had shaken the boy; the sight of mangled flesh had awoken a new rigidity and tenseness in his face.

"What's your name?" Malik asked.

The boy glanced up. "It's… Bakura."

He looked surprised at the question, as though he didn't introduce himself to others very often. And, considering he was criminal and didn't interact with others directly, that was probably the case.

"And yours?"

"Malik," he replied.

They sat in silence for a moment, as Malik contemplated the wounds on his back, and Bakura stared at him rigidly.

"Who did that to you?" Bakura finally asked.

"My father."

It seemed impossible that Bakura's face could become any more tense—but it did. He looked utterly disgusted. It was certainly one thing if guards nicked his face while he high-tailed it out of a tomb he'd just robbed. It was quite another if one's back was split open, for doing nothing wrong, by one's own father.

"What are the symbols for?" Bakura asked, still looking distinctly disgusted. "Why were they written on your skin?"

"It's a practice my family started only a few generations ago," Malik said, then paused, wondering why he was being so open with this thief. He'd never spoken about this before, because it was rather a family secret, but Malik decided there was no harm in telling. Besides, something basic—something like a reach for friendship—compelled him to continue.

"It's a little hard to explain, actually," Malik frowned. "I've only gathered bits and pieces of why exactly it started. But… several generations ago, a prophecy was made. It ordained that a Pharaoh would emerge, and that he would have need of a way to leave behind an important secret. After this prophecy was made, it was decided that a family close to the palace would be chosen to keep this secret, that the male heir of the family would receive the honor of carrying the secret on his back, when the Pharaoh finally emerged. The Ishtar family has always been close to the throne, so we were chosen."

Malik paused, gathering his thoughts.

Bakura had listened tentatively, but now frowned. "But, if the Pharaoh hasn't emerged yet—what the hell have they written on your back?"

At that, Malik's eyes darkened.

"Nonsense. They've written absolute and utter nonsense, because only generations of carving our backs will prove to the Pharaoh, whenever he finally emerges, that we are trustworthy enough to keep his secret."

Bakura looked appalled. "_What_? So—all those symbols, they mean nothing?"

Marik nodded bitterly. "Yes. The day the male heir receives the symbols is known as the Tombkeeper Initiation. It's a pretend ceremony, for now, but they still carve the symbols to assure that, whenever the Pharaoh finally leaves his secret, we'll be trustworthy enough to keep it.

"And for me, although I got the ceremony a little later than usual, that honor came today."

Bakura sat quietly for a moment. He'd clearly never heard of such a thing—and no wonder, this practice was a secret of the Ishtar family, and would continue to be so for thousands of years to come. In this momentary silence, Bakura's eyes hardened.

"Not an honor, but a curse," he finally said, jaw clenched. His eyes stormed with hatred. "Couldn't the Pharaoh just write this secret in a bound book—or write it in code? It's pointless. Completely unnecessary to offer up generations to this brutality."

"I agree, but we're expected to oblige the palace. It's unavoidable," Malik said wearily. That's all he was at the moment—weary, exhausted, and spent. It felt as though his entire back was missing. As though he'd been skinned, not sculpted.

"It's completely avoidable. No Pharaoh is worth the _skin_ on your back," Bakura retorted. His grey eyes darkened. "That's why I despise the palace, the inner court, and especially the current Pharaoh. If he ever crosses paths with me, he'll be sorry—I'll make his existence as hideous as he's made mine."

The words made Malik sit up, alert. "Those are treacherous words." And somewhere, on a less conscious level, Malik wondered how the present Pharaoh could have possible made this thief's life hideous.

But Bakura smirked. "The Pharaoh deserves nothing but treachery. Mark my words, Malik—one day I'll make him suffer the same fate he's given me. It will thoroughly please me to bring about his miserable death."

The unnerving smile terrified Malik, and he was only glad he wasn't on the receiving end of Bakura's words. He wanted to know what Bakura had meant—it was clear that his anger ran deep, and that he had thought these thoughts before—but they had just met, and Malik didn't wish to pry.

They lapsed into silence. Malik had propped his arms on the sand, and now sat with his legs splayed over the shore. He felt the night breeze lazily sail over them, and rustle the river stalks. The simple act of telling Bakura about the Ishtar secret had lightened Malik's heart, and the dark night seemed calmer, suddenly.

"Earlier, you said you had no place in the palace," Bakura broke the silence, his agitated mood seemingly dissipated. "What did you mean by that?"

Malik considered this. "I meant exactly that. I don't belong there. Especially not after the way they split my back open to write in useless symbols."

"Are you running away, then?" Bakura asked, perceptively.

Malik hesitated for a split second. That's what he'd told himself he would do. It seemed a much more frightening idea to say it out loud, though.

"Yes."

Bakura smiled at that, appraising Malik for his courage, though Malik knew that others would see his escape as cowardice.

"Where will you go? What will you do?"

Malik smiled to hear the eager curiosity in Bakura's voice. "I have no idea. It doesn't matter where I go, or what I do. I know I'll find a happier life outside the palace."

Bakura looked as though he wanted to say something. As though he wanted to offer something, but instead he hesitated, and kept his mouth shut.

But Malik no longer wanted to think of the symbols, or think of the vast unknown that lay before him, so he turned the topic toward his companion instead.

"Why did you decide to rob that tomb tonight?" he asked.

Bakura's lips slowly rose into a smirk. "I wanted to see if it could be done."

Malik's eyebrows shot up. "That sounds like a terrible motive. The guards could easily have killed you—or arrested you."

"Not in a million years, they couldn't have," Bakura said, waving off Malik's concern. "Unlike them, I'm flexible and nimble, and can get through their hands easily enough. Besides—what better way to learn criminal methods than to perform them?"

There was cheerfulness in his words, as though risking his life was actually a very enjoyable occupation.

"It's the only way I can learn to become a better thief," Bakura said, his smile fading. "I'll need all the skills I can learn to take my revenge."

"Revenge?" Malik asked, sensing that the joy was gone from Bakura's eyes.

Bakura frowned, and opened his mouth as though to explain, then closed it again. "A story for another time, perhaps."

Malik didn't wish to pry, although his words suddenly reminded him that there probably wouldn't be another time. Although they'd sat there for only a short while, Malik had felt his heart grow lighter, from the simple contact with another human being. A human being who, it seemed, shared similar cynical views of the Kingdom and the palace.

"You're bleeding again," Bakura said quietly, his eyes fixed on Malik's back.

Malik glanced into Bakura's concerned face, and thought the words unusual. Bakura didn't seem like a boy to care for others. His solitary existence as a thief cut off any meaningful contact he might have with another person. Something—perhaps the way Bakura's face was always tense, restless, and just around the edges, forlorn—caused Malik to believe he had no one. No family and no friends. Not even a confidant or an acquaintance.

They shared a long look, until Malik glanced away and said, "You too."

At that, he carefully stood from the wet sand and approached the Nile again. Without waiting to see what Bakura did, Malik stepped into the water, and moments later, Bakura followed.

The river rushed into his cuts again, as Malik entered beyond his waist, and cautiously, he began pouring handfuls of water over his shoulder. Unlike the first time he'd entered the river, he was meticulous this time, and much more calm. The introspective malice and anger was gone, momentarily, and he only concentrated on soothing the wounds.

Suddenly, he felt Bakura's hands drop water over his shoulders. He stood right behind Malik, and when Malik turned to face him, he only saw an unreadable expression on Bakura's face. So, not knowing what to say to that, Malik simply turned half-way around and continued bathing his wounds, while Bakura continued pouring handfuls of water over him.

Then, Bakura lightly touched his shoulder, just above the wounds, and Malik flinched. Not from pain, but surprise. His heart beat quicker, suddenly.

Bakura's hands roamed down, slowly and carefully. His touch was so light, Malik hardly felt any pain—rather, he felt relief. He felt respite, at being able to share such tragic wounds with someone who would accept and understand his hurt.

Then, Malik turned and looked into Bakura's grey eyes. He brought a handful of water to Bakura's face, and lightly smudged the blood from under his eye; he carefully pressed his hands over the wound and cleaned it, until most of the blood had cleared out of the cut. The entire time, Bakura simply watched him fastidiously.

Malik smiled. "I think you'll grow into the scar. It'll look dangerous and handsome on you."

At that, Bakura smirked. "It'll be very fitting, then. And it'll remind the guards never to mess with me again."

Malik laughed, as they walked out of the river together. They sat back on the sand and spent the next hour conversing, this time not about the Pharaoh, or running away, or revenge, or wounds. But about lighthearted things. Joking, and teasing each other as if they were old friends, and—mending their wounds. Not physically, for they'd already done that. But spiritually, mending the broken skin of Malik's back and Bakura's cheek, binding the blood so the bitterness could be cast aside, if only for this night.

And Malik felt it—he felt his anger subside and felt Bakura's tenseness abate—until they were simply two boys, guiltless and carefree, enjoying the moonlit night on the river shore. It reminded Malik that his bitter pain was no reason to not let life be lived.

Then, some hours later, Bakura—while telling Malik about some adventure or other he'd had stealing expensive cloths at the market—broke off mid-sentence and turned to stare at the dusty path that led to the shore.

Bakura swore under his breath quietly and rose to pick up his rucksack. "The guards are nearby. They've finally realized I was in the wrong part of the city, and have returned to search here."

Fear seized Malik, as though it was him whom the guards were after. "Hurry, then."

Bakura looked torn for a moment, hesitation clear as moonlight on his face. He and Malik both knew they might not see each other again. It tore Malik as well, to know that this connection was short-lived.

Then, suddenly, Bakura approached Malik hurriedly, and grabbed his face with both hands and pressed his lips to Malik's open mouth. Malik's eyes widened perceptibly, but he was too stunned to move.

"Malik," Bakura whispered, holding his face gingerly. "If nothing else, the past few hours have taught me this—you and I are running from the same thing."

Malik's heart beat wildly. And then, Bakura leaned in, whispering the words he was thrilled to hear:

"Come with me."

It took a great deal of self control on Malik's part not to shout _Yes!_ and alert the guards to their whereabouts. So Malik simply nodded.

Before he could realize what had just happened, Bakura had grabbed his hand, had thrown the rucksack over his back, and fled into the reeds with Malik rushing along.

Malik felt winded. He felt lightheaded and thrilled, and absolutely enamored. True, he was running off with a thief, he was escaping his Tombkeeper's life, and stamping out any chance of ever returning to the palace, without a backward glance.

But as Bakura's hand tightened around his, Malik decided he didn't care.

He heard the guards wander near the shore, but they scanned the area briefly, and left just as quickly as they'd arrived.

And so they ran. They ran with wild abandon and caught the cold wind on their faces. The night was dark and fresh, and ripe for adventure.

And Malik rushed to meet it.

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**A/N:** I hope you liked it! Please let me know what you think. :)


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